I am going to address you as Mrs, because I feel as though I should.
You are one of the only people on this list that I know, with absolutely certainty, will never read this.
I can't remember how old I was when you died. It had been a very long time since I'd seen you, anyhow. But it still hurt, a surprising amount, because whether you knew it or not, you were an integral part of my childhood.
You used to have a lemon tree and I would go and see you some days, with my mum. Your house was over the street from ours, and you used to sit out the front. I remember watching you watering your garden.
I never knew you when you were young, because I was only a baby when you came into my life. It seems ridiculous that I know so little about you and yet you made such an impact on me. Losing you was alarming, despite not having spoken to you a long time.
I don't remember when, I don't remember how, I don't remember any of the details. I just remember that you died and that I maybe didn't understand, and it makes me want to know you better.
I know that one day I will find out everything there is to know about the little Italian lady who loved me even when I was a little bit frightened of her. And I wish that I recalled more of our interactions, and that I could speak to you now, and tell you how far I've come and how much I've seen and what the world has thrown at me.
Despite our short acquaintance, I would like you to know that I miss you, ma'am.
